


Things You Said That I Wasn't Meant to Hear

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e13 No Better To Be Safe Than Sorry, Tumblr Prompt, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: Prompt on Tumblr: Things you said that I wasn't meant to hear.In which an incorporeal Quentin listens in on Eliot and Margo.





	Things You Said That I Wasn't Meant to Hear

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to folie-a-hayley on tumblr for this prompt!  
> I got very into it.

In the end, when the mirror fragmented Quentin into pieces, his shards scattered to the wind. Pieces of him ended up in trees, floating in the ocean, in the backyard of his childhood home. He couldn’t have told you how many pieces there were.

In part because he was in pieces and therefor could not talk. In part because there were too many pieces to count.

It’s a funny thing, magic. Things don’t necessarily happen the way you expect them to.

Quentin, for instance, expected death.

He could feel the pieces of himself drawing together like magnets. He could gather himself up, slowly put himself back together piece by piece. Minor mending, as it were.

He was half-aware, uncertain if he’d remember this when he’d managed to get back together completely. Unsure if he’d remember the piece of himself he’d found on the bow of the Muntjac. Or the piece of himself he’d found on a farm in Indiana. Or the piece of himself he’d found amongst the tiles of the Mosaic.

It was strange—he was traveling more than he’d ever traveled before, but in this unreal, dreamlike state.

He got more aware as more pieces came together.

He figured that once he found the last piece, he’d rejoin the land of the living.

In a distant sense, he understood that everyone believed he was gone for good. He’d, after all, found one piece of himself hidden among the cards that Julia had sent flying in the air. Another piece next to a burnt, blackened peach. Another piece caught in the pages of a book.

He hadn’t been quite near whole at that point, but he understood that he was seeing a memorial for himself.

That was before he’d found the piece that had his name, so it hadn’t hit him yet.

Now, there was only one piece left, only one piece to find, one last minor mending to perform, only—

Only—

Only—

He was here—so close to being corporeal again. So close to being able to come back. Sensing, a little bit, that the final piece he needed was nearby.

But something had caught his attention.

Eliot, pacing, frantic, angry—

He was in the Physical Cottage, watching Eliot and Margo. Feeling like it was something he shouldn’t be seeing. Unable to turn away.

“Eliot,” Margo said, in an uncharacteristically placating tone. “Calm down. You’re gonna give yourself a migraine. You don’t _mean_ that.”

Eliot scoffed, his mouth twisted into a humorless, disbelieving smile. “Oh, _don’t_ I?”

“El, come on—”

“Bambi, he had _no business_ being there! How could he—how could any of _you,_ frankly, send him in there?” Eliot snapped.

“Eliot, he volunteered.”

“Well, that’s the problem. Isn’t it?” Eliot groaned, leaning against the wall heavily. He tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Him and his stupid fucking heroics. Him and his lack of self-preservation. This is _just_ like Castle Blackspire, how did you not _see_ that?”

Flashes of Eliot shooting the Monster went through Quentin’s mind—Eliot had stopped Quentin from playing martyr once already.

“Okay, _no,_ that wasn’t that same—Blackspire was him trying sell himself for eternity, we all knew that. This wasn’t supposed to be a dangerous mission. No one knew anyone was going to _die.”_ Margo was crossing her arms, looking like she was losing patience.

“What are you saying, it wasn’t supposed to be a _suicide_ mission?” Eliot bit out. Quentin started to take a step towards him—uncertain, hesitant. Still incomplete enough to feel like this was a dream. Complete enough to know what Eliot was trying to say.

Margo’s eyes widened. “Eliot, I’d be _real_ careful about the next words out of your mouth,” she replied through her teeth.

Eliot rolled his eyes, turning away. “Whatever, Margo. He _knew_ what he was doing. And you should’ve been paying closer attention.”

“Fuck you,” Margo spat. “You don’t get to blame me for this. Sorry I was a little preoccupied saving _your_ ass.”

“What, you want to shift some of the blame onto me?” Eliot said, losing the fight in his voice. “Go right ahead, I won’t disagree. There’s _plenty_ of blame to go around. We could blame Julia, who should’ve known better. Penny, for letting him do it. Alice, for being there. Or hey, let’s blame _Quentin._ He’s the one that chose to sacrifice himself.”

Margo let out a sigh. “Okay, baby, I’m gonna let how much of a dick you’re being slide. I know—I know what he meant to you.”

Eliot shook his head. “You _don’t,_ that’s the thing. You don’t know what he meant to me. No one does. Hell, _he_ doesn’t—I never got the chance to—”

A spark of something happened inside Quentin’s almost-chest. There was something he was missing—something he didn’t understand. The unreal quality of the air sharpened.

“Oh, honey,” Margo said. She took a seat on Eliot’s bed, hanging her head a little. “You think you were subtle?”

Eliot half-laughed, but the sound was brimming with nerves. “Bambi, you have no idea how much I’ve held back. How much I’ve hidden.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Given how obvious you were, I’d say that must mean he was your fucking soul mate or something.”

Eliot glanced at her, his eyes pained.

“Well, shit,” she said.

“Did he ever,” Eliot started slowly, “tell you anything about the Mosaic?”

She shrugged. “I read the letter. I know that like, some other versions of you got old and died. What about it?”

“We remembered. We remembered _everything.”_

Margo stared for a few moments. “And you never _told me?”_ she said, and it came out strained.

Quentin studied Eliot’s face, taking a few weightless steps towards him. He knew, he remembered—but there was so much distance. He understood in a vague, barely-there sense what was happening. But the part of him that understood—

Well, it was having the noncorporeal equivalent of a panic attack.

Which is to say that Quentin was actually quite calm and clear. There was just something bubbling below, like a threat to erupt when he mended that final piece.

“Bambi,” Eliot said, his voice cracking just a little. “I so wanted to tell you. I couldn’t, I—you don’t understand what I did.”

“So explain it to me,” Margo said, almost gentle. Her eyes were both soft and flinty.

“After we remembered—look, alright, it was _fifty years_ of memories, fifty years of feelings, just all at once, okay? So just like. Try and imagine it—in a matter of moments, you go from being _you_ to having this whole other life in your head, alright? All at once, all at _fucking_ once.” Eliot was talking fast, his hands moving. “It was overwhelming, and terrifying, and nauseating, and yeah, alright—kind of beautiful. We were—God, we had a _son_ together, Margo.”

Margo’s face was slack and her eyes wide, any betrayal at being left out of the loop seeming to have been forgotten.

“Holy _shit,_ El,” she breathed.

“No fucking kidding,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“A son?”

A small, sad smile appeared on Eliot’s face, fading quickly before it reached his eyes. “His name was Teddy,” he said softly. “And he was smart, and he was snarky, and he was—God, Margo, you would’ve been a _great_ godmother, you know that?”

Margo sniffed, and Quentin realized, vaguely, that she had tears in her eyes.

“I thought—or rather, I _remember_ thinking about that a lot. How much Teddy would have loved you. I told him stories about you.” Eliot’s gaze dropped to the floor. “God, it really was beautiful.”

_It really was—_ Quentin could almost understand how beautiful it had been. He knew, on some level.

“Fucking hell, Eliot,” Margo replied.

“Yeah.”

“Wait, but—that was, like, the middle of the fucking key quest, why weren’t you and Q all—” Margo gestured vaguely.

Eliot looked up at her, a bare, hopeless smile on his face. “Margo…” he said, softly.

She stared at him. “What did you do?”

Eliot took a breath, exhaling slowly. “Well, you know our Q,” he said steadily. “He wanted to jump right in. Give us a shot. He said we had _proof of concept.”_

Margo’s gaze was back to being that soft-flinty, like she couldn’t decide between anger or sympathy. “What did you _do?”_ she repeated, sounding borderline disappointed.

Quentin watched Eliot’s face, curious—

“I told him—that it wasn’t us. Those memories, it wasn’t me and it wasn’t him. Not if we had a choice.” Eliot pressed his palms against the wall behind him, tapping with his fingers. “I told him no, you know? I was… Afraid. Afraid of what would happen to us. Afraid of—I don’t know. Something real.”

“Oh, Eliot,” Margo said, her face softening. “You must have broken his heart.”

At that Quentin felt something—something come back to him, a feeling—

Eliot let out a huff of laughter. “I know. All because I was afraid. I never got the chance to—I was going to _tell him,_ Bambi. I was going to tell him.”

“All of this, it just—” Margo sighed. “It fucking _sucks,_ Eliot. Jesus.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eliot’s lips twitched up in a smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

The piece, the missing piece—

Quentin had to find it. He felt an urgency in him, like he was out of time, like he needed to be back _now,_ even through the dreamlike haze—

The last piece was on Eliot’s windowsill.

Minor mendings.

Quentin put himself back together.

It was—a strange experience, to say the least.

Like all of Quentin’s humanity and baggage and emotional weight came crashing down. He crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. He was back together, back together and—

And he remembered. All of it.

“What the _fuck?”_ Margo yelped, getting to her feet.

_“Quentin?”_ Eliot said, disbelief and confusion in his voice. “How the hell—what are you—Q, Q, are you okay?”

And then Eliot was on the floor next to him, shaking hands touching his shoulders lightly. Like he was afraid of Quentin shattering again.

“Water—I need water—” Quentin managed to croak out.

“Margo—” Eliot started.

“I’m on it,” she said, rushing out of the room.

There was a heavy moment of silence. Eliot’s hands grew steadier on Quentin’s shoulders and he wrapped his arms around his back.

“Q, how are you here? I don’t—” Eliot breathed out, pulling him close and tucking his head underneath his chin. “I don’t _understand.”_

“I—I fixed it,” Quentin said softly, his voice starting to come back. “I put myself back together.”

“Well, I still don’t quite understand, but—God, Q, I’m so fucking happy to see you.”

Quentin shivered a little, leaning closer into Eliot’s chest. He felt overwhelmed with feelings, overwhelmed in a way that had only happened once before.

“Eliot?” he said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“I heard.”

Eliot stilled around him, his hand pausing where it had been stroking his arm.

“You heard?” he said.

“Every word,” Quentin replied.

“Oh.” Eliot cleared his throat. “And, um. What do you think? About what you heard?”

Quentin considered. The feelings were overwhelming, but he knew.

He knew with every ounce of certainty and clarity he’d always had.

“I think—” Quentin started. “I think we have another second chance.”

Eliot laughed, but it sounded like it was to cover a sob.

“We’ll run out of those soon.”

Quentin smiled through the tears welling in his eyes, burying his face into Eliot’s shoulder.

“But not yet,” he said.

“Fifty years.”

“Proof of concept.” Quentin tipped his head back, gazing up at Eliot with all the adoration he felt. “Let’s have fifty more, yeah?”

Eliot leaned down, kissing him as an answer.


End file.
